Confessions of a spendaholic

In life, there are compulsive shoppers and there are compulsive spenders. What’s the difference, you ask, when both of them essentially mean going to a store and spending just the same? For one thing, compulsive shoppers are obsessed with acquiring luxuries or necessities whereas compulsive spenders are obsessed with the idea of actually acquiring stuff — whether or not they have the means, and whether or not there was a point to their spending.

I’m the latter. I’m a compulsive spender. Deploy me to a store and I can walk out with something, whether or not I’ll end up using it. Point me to Amazon and I will find a way to check out with a random book or DVD. Pull a Pretty Woman on Rodeo Drive moment (“Huge mistake!”) and I will let you have it, full force. Most recently, I became obsessed with Candy Crush and swore not to spend a dime as I have with other iPhone apps. Alas, I’ve spent about $20 — which pales in comparison to the $200 I’ve spent on Snoopy Street Fair, and $100 on Zombie Café but annoying nonetheless. Yes, I am definitely a compulsive spender.

My compulsion probably began around the mid ‘00s, right around the time my parents gave me the most evil thing that an impressionable teenager could have: a credit card. A simple rectangle of plastic opened the floodgates to unimaginable power that made up for the absence of type-A genetics or foreign blood in my system. A credit card was all I ever needed to be “reassured” that I would always be okay, even if I was literally at rock bottom. (Whatever happened to relying on friends for support, right?)

Didn’t get into my dream school? Go to a restaurant and order all items on the menu. Lost the gold medal at taekwondo? Buy a Playstation. Had a rough day at the office? Head over to the mall and do some retail therapy. Went to an audition that you feel you didn’t ace? Buy a Broadway ticket, even to a show you’d already seen twice.

This never-ending cycle of spending via plastic thus unfolds: heading to a store and going around in circles, finding a diamond in the rough, hearing my credit card swiped — a swift, intoxicating melody that is as potent and deadly as the smell of newly opened glossies; and then walking away with an artifact enabled by that simple piece of plastic.

Sometimes, I feel like I don’t exist if I don’t spend. Conversely, I feel that spending puts me one step ahead of everybody else — which in hindsight, enables me, but with a false sense of power, and a false sense of hope. Reality kicks in later on, once my parents show me my bill and I get some due scolding, or I find myself in some existential brouhaha.

I realized after moments of possession that spending is never really as fulfilling as facing your problems head on. After all, if my parents didn’t have my back, I’d end up in a great deal of debt because of what my disappointments in life have led me to do, and I’d feel worse. Times are hard, and money, sad to say, doesn’t grow on trees.

The more I thought about it, wearing out my credit card will never be at par with actually getting into my dream school or being happy with my life or my career. Some things you really have to work hard for, especially ones that money can’t buy — love, success, fulfillment, and happiness.

Compulsive spending, or any compulsion for that matter, isn’t a way out; it’s a way in — that is, to a lot of sh*t. I realized that there is more to life than what I buy, and I am more than what my credit card can swipe. That said, I’ve finally surrendered my credit card, and become more cautious of what I buy. That means still having occasional bouts of compulsive spending which I have yet to control, and then not spending at all to make up for whatever I spent. I’ve also downloaded this iPhone app called Saver that allows me to keep track of my monthly expenditures — and if I manage to live within my budget, I’ll treat myself to something nifty. Sure, it might defeat the purpose of saving, but slow and steady wins the race. Compulsive spending can be controlled. You just need the right motivation.